


The "Missing Links" Affair

by jessebee



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, M/M, Mystery, Supernatural Elements, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio....”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Not-So-Pretty Picture

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Missing Links  
> Author: jesse  
> Genre/Pairing: Pre-slash (so far), N/I  
> Rating: Mature, for possibly disturbing imagery and m/m sexual tension  
> Word count: ~13500?  
> Summary: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio....”  
> Disclaimer/Warning: Characters are not mine, sadly. Close lid before depressing handle.  
> A/N: This work is NOT FINISHED. Not even a vague clue if or when it ever will be, but it's been lurking on my hard drive for years and I thought I'd give it some breathing room. The supernatural elements and references I have made up out of whole cloth, and one will probably note various other instances of handwaving concerning timelines and things. That would be why it's called "fiction."

 

 

 

 

" _Bozhe moi_."

 

The soft words nearly stopped Napoleon dead in his tracks as he came through the door into Waverly's office, because Illya didn't _do_ that. His Russian partner swore, certainly, creatively and in more than a few languages, but that? That had sounded like a prayer.

 

"Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. Indeed." Alexander Waverly's sharp gaze swept Napoleon as he restarted himself and approached the round conference table, unease curling in his stomach. "Have a seat, Mr. Solo, and take a look at the file in front of Mr. Kuryakin there."

 

Napoleon sank into the seat next to Illya's and looked, but at Illya. His partner's face was pale beneath the tan, his jaw as tight as Napoleon had ever seen it, and his broad, capable hands were flat on top of the file, covering all but the edges of a photograph. The curl of unease wound a little tighter. "Illya?"

 

"Napoleon. You might wish…." Illya drew a breath. "It is not pretty."

 

"Duly noted." Napoleon tugged gently on the edge of the file, and Illya lifted his hands.

 

At first it didn't even make sense, just a bloody mess of – fur? Some sort of large animal that had gotten messily killed, but that, there, looked like fabric and -- Napoleon blinked, then caught his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his stomach to stay put as it hit him: the smells of blood and smoke, the savage rankness of fevered – nightmare? Memory? _Not again. Oh sweet bleeding Jesus,_ _ **please**_ _, not again_. "Dear God," he whispered.

 

"Yes," Illya agreed softly. 

 

_This is not happening_. Napoleon swallowed hard. "Sir, I don't question that this is – horrible, but what does an animal attack, even one this ugly, have to do with us?"

 

But it was Illya who answered him. "Look again, Napoleon. Here. And here." The Russian's forearm pressed against Napoleon's as Illya reached over, pointing to specific parts of the photograph, parts Napoleon really didn't want to examine more closely. "This was not an animal attack, not a case of animal killing human and then being killed. This was a human who was killed – while becoming an animal."

 

_No_.

 

“Obviously we don't know how – a metamorphosis of - “

 

_NO_. 

 

" _What_?!" Napoleon jerked around to stare, but Illya wasn't meeting his eyes. _This is_ _ **not**_ _happening._ "Okay, that is more than a little too H.G. Wells for me, partner. You think this poor s.o.b. is the result of – what? Some insane surgical attempt? I don't believe it. Even THRUSH isn't that brutal."

 

"The picture is before you, Napoleon."

 

"Photos can be faked, partner mine."

 

"And sometimes they are, Mr. Solo, that is true." Waverly set his pipe down on the table, the click of glossy wood on metal loud in the room. "But not when our own agents take them."

 

Napoleon swallowed again, fighting down the thing still trying to claw its way up his throat. "We took this. Our people. U.N.C.L.E.."

 

"Yes," Illya said flatly. "One week ago."

 

"Where?"

 

"Czechoslovakia, somewhat east of Nitra." Illya pointed the remote at the viewscreen on the far side of the room, his hands steady as always. One click brought up the map, the next few zoomed in until the names and topography came clear. "There. In the foothills of the mountains."

 

The Carpathian Mountains. God, of course. Every gory horror story needed the proper setting. Napoleon leaned his head over the back of his chair and closed his eyes again, because breaking out in hysterical laughter in the boss's office just wouldn't do. "Perfect. That's just perfect." _Transylvania, here we come_.

 

#

 

 

Napoleon made a beeline for the back of their office and dug into the bottom drawer of the credenza. So what if it was barely past 10am? The door clicked closed, and his partner's soft tread approached. When Napoleon turned, snifters and bottle in hand, Illya had already parked a hip on Napoleon's desk, one blond eyebrow raised. Napoleon shot him a look -- _not a word_. Illya looked vaguely offended. Napoleon poured out the brandy – life was far too short to drink bad booze when the job didn't require it – and handed one glass to Illya. Their fingers brushed, warmth against the cool glass. Napoleon absently ran his thumb over his fingertips as he reached to pick up his own glass and raise it. " _Salute_."

 

Blue eyes met his over the rim. " _Budmo_."

 

The first shot went down quick and smooth, shamefully quick for such fine alcohol, in fact, so Napoleon poured them both a second, rather larger portion. He sipped, the Armagnac biting his throat this time, and then shifted back in his chair, propping his feet on the handle of one of his desk drawers, glass held close against his chest. The burn was comforting, helping to set the last pieces of his professional self back into place. _You're an experienced, highly-trained agent, not a wet-behind-the-ears kid._ _ **Act**_ _like it._

 

Illya cradled his own snifter in one palm, toying with it, liquid moving with every slow tilt of his hand. Napoleon watched it absently, drawn into shifting amber depths. Or that could be his excuse anyway, should Illya want to know why Napoleon was looking at….

 

"This disturbs you, doesn't it."

 

Caught with his thoughts wandering where he tried never to let them go, Napoleon twitched. "You mean your playing with my expensive alcohol?"

 

"Ha." Again with the eyebrows; Illya could express more emotion with less motion than anyone else Napoleon had ever met, although it had taken him a while to decipher the Kuryakin 'codebook.' "This case we are beginning. It – bothers you, more than others we have -- "

 

Napoleon's feet hit the floor with a slap as he sat up. "Hell _yes_ , it bothers me! And it bothers you too; don't even try that stoic Russian bit with me. I know you better than that."

 

Illya raised his glass and took a healthy swallow, the motion shifting his holster where it snugged across his shoulders, soft leather gleam almost lost against his high-necked black sweater. "Yes, it does," he admitted after some moments, his accent stronger than usual. "It is…."

 

"It's butchery, is what it is," Napoleon muttered. “It's got to be.” He put his elbows on the desk and leaned into them, snifter cupped between his hands. "It makes no sense."

 

"What makes no sense is to theorize without having any information."

 

"Please, if I had a nickel for every time you've done that – "

 

"Ah, but when I do that, it is science." Illya looked at him sideways from under his again-too-long fringe of hair, a familiar glint in his eyes, and Napoleon smiled despite himself. Oh yes, the codebook had been hard-won, but worth every single bit of effort. He remembered too well how his life had been before they'd been partnered, before a taciturn Russian had become his best friend, and he wasn't going back.

 

Illya disrespected his brandy again by knocking the rest of it back in one quick go; no surprise, really, though, as he'd told Napoleon once that most alcohols were like mother's milk to him as compared to the harsh vodkas he'd grown up with. He gave his head a quick shake, perhaps to knock his disordered hair away from his eyes, and then stared at the empty glass in his hand.

 

Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "Illya?"

 

His partner drew breath – and the phone rang. Illya grabbed it before Napoleon could, an expression of faint relief crossing his sharp features. "Kuryakin." A pause. "Thank you." He hung up and turned to Napoleon. "We leave for London in one hour and from there to Vienna and Bratislava. I suggest you bring a good coat; it is cool in the mountains, at this time of year. Or cool for you, perhaps."

 

A teasing warmth in blue eyes again, but Napoleon refused to be diverted. "There's something on your mind _, amico mio_."

 

Illya gave a tiny, peculiarly Slavic shrug. "There always is. But it will keep."

 

#

 


	2. Into The Old World

 

 

And keep it Illya did, too, all the way to London and halfway to Vienna. Napoleon flirted automatically with the stewardess, filling in Illya's edgy silences and trying to ignore the lead feeling in his gut. He'd grown to hate trips to the Eastern Block countries. He couldn't wish for a better companion than Illya, but neither could he shake the fear that one day the Iron Curtain would slam down around his Russian partner and refuse to part again. Not that the _Presidium_ couldn't reach overseas and demand Illya's return straight from UNCLE North America, of course, but it always seemed impossible, somehow, in New York, the door guarded with the formidable clout of Alexander Waverly. An illusion, Napoleon knew, and a dangerous one, but one that gave him a little comfort on those nights when the dreams got particularly rough.

 

"At least we're not driving in from Prague this time," he murmured, when he'd had enough of staring sightlessly at rainy Europe below, having swapped with Illya for the window seat on their connection to Vienna.

 

Illya snorted. "That would be a remarkable waste of time, yes, as Prague is most of the way across the country. It is a beautiful city, though," he continued, his voice going soft, losing a little of the tension he'd had since their meeting with Waverly. "I was…stationed there, briefly."

 

"The one time I was there, we weren't exactly able to sight-see. It escaped damage during the war, I believe?" Napoleon asked, carefully casual, as if Illya offered up bits of his personal history every day.

 

"Not entirely. You did bomb it at the end, in 1945." The casual "you" hurt something in Napoleon's chest. "But only perhaps a third of the city was destroyed. The city centre survived, as did the _Staré Město_ – the Old Town, the Astronomical Clock, Prague Castle." Illya shifted and resettled in his seat, his shoulder now pressed lightly against Napoleon's. "Perhaps we will go there one day, to see the sights, you and I."

 

Something else twisted in Napoleon's chest, but it wasn't hurt this time. "I would like that," he said, when he could speak. "I would like that very much."

 

# 

 

The border crossing at Bratislava was still cheerless and forbidding, maybe more so this time as Napoleon was seeing it in the grey, rainy daylight. Crossing guarded borders the official way always made him a tiny bit itchy; he much preferred to sneak in and keep the tools of his trade intact. Crossing paranoid police-state Communist-guarded borders the official way, especially ones with soldiers who stared at his partner like Illya was some sort of traitor, made his shoulders knot and his teeth ache. Official scrutiny failed to turn up either irregularity in their papers or contraband in their car, and they were waved on through.

 

"Well, that was fun," Napoleon commented, deliberately snide, and got Illya's sideways glare. "So, the agents who made the report – "

 

"Radek Dufala and Jarmil Bakoss. Both Section Two, only recently out of Survival School, 1960 and 1961, respectively." Illya drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in no pattern Napoleon could distinguish, squinting into the rain. "Really, Napoleon, do you never actually read the reports?"

 

"Isn't that what I have you for?" Napoleon replied, too silky. God, he hadn't been here two hours yet and already this country was getting to him. Getting to both of them. "Agents Dufala and Bakoss were on vacation, actually, a hiking trip, when they came across that poor bastard, about five or six miles north of the quaint hamlet of Nova Žirany. No one in the town heard anything, saw anything, and most certainly won't _say_ anything, not even to Bakoss, who was born around the area, so _yes_ , Illya, I _did,_ in fact, read the damn report."

 

Silence reigned in the car for a long time, sharp and prickly.

 

"My apologies," Illya said finally, cool and clipped. 

 

Napoleon blew out a breath. "No, my apologies, partner," he said, lifting a hand to his neck to rub at the stiff muscles there. "I'm – on edge." And didn't he hate to admit that?

 

Another minute of silence. Illya took a slow, deep breath and let it back out, just as slowly. "Tell me," he said simply, forgiveness implicit, his voice warm now and that just wasn't fair because Napoleon had no real defense against it.

 

"Illya – "

 

"Tell me. This is not like you, Napoleon. Something has been bothering you since you saw that photograph. It was horrible, yes, but we have seen more than our share of horror and death, perhaps too much. What is different this time?"

 

The bluntness comforted in a way that soft platitude never did. Napoleon glanced over briefly, noting idly the way the dreary light robbed his partner's hair of its usual shine, dulling the silver-gilt. _Don't ever change, Illya Nickovetch._ "Korea." He started to close his eyes, thought better of it. Behind his eyelids, the memories – if they were memories – were much too clear. "I…saw something. Similar. Maybe." 

 

Illya's breathing hitched ever so slightly. "Not a photograph."

 

"No."

 

"And…then?"

 

"And then – nothing. There was nothing I _could_ do, tovarisch, we were there and gone." He kept his voice carefully even, unemotional. "I was a soldier and it was a war. They weren't my people and it wasn't my country and until this morning I wasn't sure if it was even _real_ and you know, I think I'm done talking about it." He turned his head to stare hard at his partner. "Your turn."

 

"What?"

 

"You do recall our conversation this morning? This is bothering you too, Illya. I'd like to know why."

 

Illya opened his mouth, closed it again. Breathed out, and in, and out again. “Dinner.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“It's a tale best told over dinner, inside, with warmth and food and should we be lucky, good local beer.”

 

And despite the deflection, Napoleon still had to smile, because Illya would ever be Illya. _Don't ever change._ “You've got until- “ he consulted the map “ - Nitra, my friend, which looks like the last place of any size before Nova Zirany. And then we'll have the tale.”

 

He was rewarded with Illya's quick, quiet smile.

 

#

 

"In Ukraine and Russia, as in Europe, there are many old stories, folktales, fairytales, if you will; a far greater number than you seem to have in America." Illya had inhaled his own dinner and a portion of Napoleon's, and was, finally, talking.

 

"Comes from our being the new kid on the world block," Napoleon said dryly.

 

"Yes, probably. Your country is quite young, a newborn really," Illya agreed without a trace of irony. "What tales you do have are mostly versions of ours that you have changed, given them pretty, happy endings and made them quite useless."

 

Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "Useless?" he said, and took another swallow of what had turned out to be a truly fine beer.

 

"Useless. Folktales and fairytales are cautionary stories, fantastical narrative with old truths at the centers, beneath the layers, meant to teach the young about the way the world actually works and the fact that life is usually hard and unfair. And sometimes they do not make sense, just as the world does not, but we must live with it the best that we can."

 

This, Napoleon thought, might explain a few things about his partner. "And no room for happy endings? No dashing heroes, trying to right the wrongs, make the world make sense here and there?" he asked lightly.

 

Illya smiled, small but very much there. "There are a few heroes, yes."

 

_Such as your own namesake, eh, my friend? And you liked those stories best, didn't you? Because despite everything, you are here, with me, trying to right the wrongs_. "Alright, not that I'm not enjoying this discussion of sociology and cultural exchange, but are you really going to, ah, compare this to a Russian fairytale?"

 

Illya's smile vanished like snow in the sunshine, and Napoleon wanted to bite his tongue. "If you do not wish to hear – "

 

"No, I do. I do. Because I know you, and if it's on your mind, then it's going to be relevant, somehow."

 

Opaque blue eyes examined him, weighed and measured. Then the wall melted and it was his Illya again who sighed minutely and looked down into his beer. "When I was a child…."

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

Another sigh, and Illya raised his head to stare at some point past Napoleon's left shoulder. "When I was a child, before the war, there were Rom – gypsies – who camped on the edges of our land during the summer months and the early fall. They had – had business with some ancestor of mine, and there were favors owed." His gaze dropped again, and he began to draw some random figure on the scarred table top with one finger. "I think, in hindsight, they may have been – guarding, actually, for I spent quite a lot of time with them while my family worked, occasionally several days at a time."

 

"Which explains your rather extensive knowledge of them," Napoleon said into Illya's pause, almost afraid to breathe, the remains of his dinner forgotten.

 

"I acquired much of that knowledge later on, actually, in study and other places. But I'm sure that those early years did form my interest. In any case, the Rom are consummate storytellers, not the least of which because their traditions are oral, handed down by mouth through the generations." Illya's gaze rose to meet Napoleon's, blue eyes somber. "Some of the stories I was told concerned the _l'udi mezhdu_ , people who were sometimes not people, but animals."

 

_L'udi mezhdu_. Napoleon groped for a moment before the meaning of the Russian words came to him. The people between. "You mean like, ah, werewolves? Getting hairy and howling at the full moon?"

 

Illya's mouth twitched, and he took another swallow of his beer. "Not exactly. The _l'udi mezhdu_ were more subtle, less likely to cause harm, although certainly ready to take revenge when wronged. Animal mischief was frequently attributed to them, much as the English country dweller will place blame on the fairies at the bottom of the garden. Any animal one met might be one of the _l'udi_ , from the bird in the field to the mouse behind the walls, but they were encountered in the wild places as well."

 

Napoleon blinked. At that moment, hair glowing a million shades of gold in the light from the inn's massive fireplace, Illya seemed a bit less his practical, solid partner and a little more something eldritch, of an Old World that Napoleon could never quite reach. "Illya, you are not telling me you think we're dealing with the supernatural? That our victim was some kind of, of _shape-shifter_?"

 

"I am a scientist, Napoleon. I am also Russian." Illya tilted his head, his expression wry. "I was raised on tales of the supernatural, as were the people here and the area we go to also. Folklore, whatever one's opinion of it, is part of the local consciousness and may very well have some bearing on this affair." His gaze dropped again. "Are you going to eat that _halusky_?"

 

Wordlessly, Napoleon pushed his plate across the table and Illya dug in, polishing off the last of the dumplings, like he neither knew nor cared that he'd just knocked a chunk of Napoleon's world sideways.

 

It wasn't until much later that night as Napoleon lay staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to sleep, trying even more desperately to ignore the warmth and achingly familiar smell of his partner, eighteen inches distant across the bed they'd had to share and a million miles out of his reach, that he realized that Illya hadn't actually answered his question.

 

#


	3. Blood and Fire and Fur

 

 

 

 

 

The light twisted weirdly through the clearing, the sun half down, fire throwing shine and shadow on the headman, the villagers behind him, the thing on the ground before him. Napoleon swallowed. His throat ached, his skin hot and stinging, wrapped too close to his bones. The air tasted all of smoke and blood and the sharp, sour tang of terror.

 

"Demon," the headman said.

 

Light flashed down the knife blade as the short, dark man pointed with it. "Look at it. See what the gods have brought."

 

The girl lay on the ground between them, arrow protruding from her breast, quivering. Rising, falling.

 

Still alive.

 

"Alive. She's – sweet Jesus, she's _alive_ , she's still breathing, we can save – "

 

The ground smacked his knees hard when he hit, hard hands on his shoulders forcing him down. " _Look_ at it."

 

The paws where hands should be, feet should be, bloodied paws where they'd tried to get at the shaft bleeding her life away from between her breasts, small, with more hair dark and soft-looking – 

 

"She will save us, American. The blood, the flesh." The headman sounded satisfied. Eager. "But it must be taken now, while she still breathes – "

 

He lunged, only to be knocked back, pain fire-bright blooming along his arm, their many hands too strong, holding him back, back, and he shouted, his throat raw as the knife that moved down and the eyes below him opened for one last look and he was drowning in black and sorrow – but lightening now and it's different, something different this time, browned skin fading into whiter and eyes, eyes, drowning, drowning again in blue, brilliant blue. Russian blue.

 

_"_ _**NO** _ _!!"_

 

" _Napoleon_!"

 

Bound, so tight, too tight, got to move, can't move, can't _breath_ – 

 

"Napoleon, wake up. Wake up now, it's me – "

 

Illya?

 

" – only me, you are safe. _Legkij, moj drug, legkij teper' – "_

 

Illya. Arms around him, so close.

 

" – breathe, Napasha, breathe, deeply – "

 

He gasped, and his chest unlocked abruptly and he sucked in air, cool night air, the warm familiar musk of Illya's body, warm skin against his, so _close_.

 

" – yes, good. Again." 

 

Another breath and everything unlocked this time, muscles pulled wire-tight relaxing all at once and he went limp against the mattress, aching with the release. His throat hurt. "God."

 

"No god, just me," Illya said in his ear. "Your partner, remember?"

 

_Illya_. Christ, just once, he couldn't be blamed for giving in just this once, right? Napoleon twisted around before he could come to his senses and buried his face against Illya's shoulder.

 

Illya stilled, breath catching, but he didn't pull away. One big hand slid up Napoleon's back and curved around the nape of his neck, stroking gently, and something in Napoleon's chest broke.

 

It was a while before he found his voice again. "Sorry." Great, he sounded like he'd been underwater.

 

Illya made a questioning little sound. "Whatever for?" A soft chuff, and the hand at his nape closed down and shook him lightly. "Americans. Russians are not afraid of bodily contact, you know, when needed. Hugs, kisses. Tears. We are quite healthier than you that way."

 

Napoleon snorted, smiling, feeling better in spite of himself. Itchy-eyed and wrung out, but better. "And you're the poster child for spontaneous emotional display."

 

"It is not often needed."

 

He could hear the smile – dare he say affection – in Illya's voice, and swallowed. _Needed more often than you'll ever guess, partner._ He inched back and out of Illya's embrace, even though it felt like tearing away a piece of his own skin. He rolled up onto one elbow, and looked down at his partner in the faint light. "'Napasha'?"

 

"Ah." Not enough light to make out expression, but he thought Illya sounded a little sheepish. "It's a – diminutive. A nickname. I'm sorry; I know you don't care for people applying them to you."

 

Warmth filled him, further muting the nightmare. "It's fine. It's you, Illya, so that's different."

 

" _Horosho_." Illya's teeth flashed white, briefly, in the dim. "Do you want to talk about it?"

 

Napoleon flopped onto his back and blew out a long breath. "Not really. But…."

 

"But. The dream, it was about…."

 

"Yes."

 

Illya turned onto his side and propped his head up on one hand, a dark, solid presence along Napoleon's left side. Napoleon almost thought he could feel Illya's regard, like heat, against his cheekbone. "You know I am not one for – personal analysis. I dislike even U.N.C.L.E.'s procedures, and we have both had our minds tampered with by others. But…sometimes a friend…."

 

Napoleon stared up at the ceiling for a while. "I've – never been even sure if it was real, if it actually happened," he said finally. "We'd been stationed in the area for a while, long enough to find the local places to get into trouble."

 

"Knowing you, that did not take long." Illya's voice was low and amused.

 

"It's a talent of mine," Napoleon agreed, with a half-smile. "Anyway, a couple of us were, ah, sampling the available entertainment. I was offered something to drink, wine, she said, that was from the private stock. The good stuff, not served to foreigners."

 

"And you drank it." Amused and appalled this time, in about equal measure.

 

Napoleon shrugged one shoulder. "I was barely eighteen, and a soldier. What I _thought_ I knew was vast."

 

Illya snorted. "You grow up very late, in the West."

 

Napoleon couldn't disagree. "The next thing I remember clearly was being taken into the center of town, maybe a nearby village, I don't really know. It was almost dark; there were torches, but the light wasn't good. There was something on the ground, and a guy who must have been the headman, he was dressed like it, pointing at it with his knife. "It was – " He swallowed. "It was a lot like the picture. Like she was – caught, somehow, halfway between human and animal."

 

"She." Illya was very still beside him.

 

Napoleon nodded. "The girl I'd – yeah. I think. I couldn't tell for sure." He blinked, still staring up. Odd, how calm he was now, as the words finally came. Or maybe just exhausted. "Paws where her hands and feet should be, dark fur, maybe a tail – and an arrow in her chest. "Demon," the guy said. "Look at it." That's when I realized that she was still breathing, that I could save her if I could get some help. But there were too many of them, I couldn't have gotten free even if I hadn't been half out of it, got slashed up trying though, and the guy said something about how she'd _save_ them, blood, flesh, like some obscene parody of Communion, and it had to be taken _from the living_."

 

Illya's hand was on his shoulder, he realized. The heat of it was like a brand, even through his pajamas.

 

"When I woke up again, I was back with my unit, laid out in my bunk with blood on my arm, the headache from hell, and barely half a shred of evidence."

 

"Did they investigate?" Illya asked after a minute, his accent thicker than usual.

 

"Yes, but they didn't find anything. I wasn't any help; it was a good two days before I did much other than sleep and throw up. The medic was convinced it was fever-dream, and that's the report Colonel Morgan signed. In a couple of weeks, I agreed with them, at least during the day. After the dreams stopped, I didn't think about it at all. Until yesterday."

 

Silence fell again. Napoleon felt drained, and curiously peaceful, as if finally speaking the words aloud had taken their weight from him. Illya lay beside him, close as a whisper. Then the Russian moved, pressing his forehead to the point of Napoleon's shoulder and sliding a strong arm across his chest like an anchor. Napoleon wrapped his fingers around Illya's forearm, corded muscle and soft skin where his partner's sleeve had ridden up. The compact body against his was trembling, just slightly.

 

"It was real, Napasha." 

 

Napoleon just nodded, too tired to ask why Illya believed him and out of words, in any case. Illya said he believed it – that was good enough.

 

#

 

 


	4. Meetings and Mountain Goats

 

 

 

Nitra was little more interesting in daylight than it had been at night, and they were packed and on the road in short order, Napoleon behind the wheel and Illya navigating, being better suited to the task of deciphering maps and signs written in a language that seemed about eighty percent consonants. 

 

A bit of the peace of last night had stayed with Napoleon, settling into a previously unnoticed crack in his soul. He'd woken again briefly, somewhere in the night, to Illya close behind him, arm around his waist and head against his shoulder blade. Safe. He'd promptly dropped off again without a twitch, not to stir again until Illya, smelling freshly showered, woke him with the admonishment to get "his lazy American ass" out of bed.

 

The sense of well-being was diminishing, though, at Illya's current failure to raise either of their local U.N.C.L.E. agents on the communicator. "Agent Bakoss, please respond." Napoleon glanced over to see Illya's jaw settle in a line he knew too well. "Open Channel D, please."

 

"Channel D open." The response was a little staticky, but prompt.

 

"Illya Kuryakin reporting in, message to be relayed to Mr. Waverly, please, when he arrives."

 

"Mr. Waverly is in the building, actually; please stand by."

 

Illya's eyebrows went up at that, and Napoleon had to grin. "Ah, the head that wears the crown never seems to sleep, apparently, you know that."

 

"Even at two o'clock in the morning? Are you sure you truly wish to succeed him, Napoleon? That will cut into your busy social schedule, I would think."

 

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin." Their boss's cultured tones filled the air before Napoleon could riposte. He sounded faintly irked, but that wasn't surprising. "Mr. Solo is with you?"

 

"He is, sir. We are perhaps about an hour out of Nova Žirany, but I am unable to contact either Dufala or Bakoss by communicator."

 

"Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. That is unfortunate, although not completely surprising. There have been past reports of difficulties in various areas of the Carpathians, although it is uncommon. Possibly it is connected with the geography of the areas affected, but it is intermittent and the Eastern offices have not had the time and resources as of yet to track down the cause."

 

"Would have been nice if that had been in the report," Napoleon muttered.

 

"Yes, it would have, Mr. Solo. Unfortunately, sometimes field agents do not make their reports either as promptly or as thoroughly as we would like."

 

Napoleon winced. Illya grinned.

 

"Keep in touch when possible, by telephone if necessary, although – " The static abruptly increased, along with a background hum that had Illya wincing now and adjusting the controls. Then it eased off again, almost as fast.

 

"Napoleon, stop the car. I'm sorry, sir," Illya said into the communicator again, "we seem to have just encountered such an area of difficulty as you described."

 

"Yes, it was rather a dramatic pause on this end as well, Mr. Kuryakin. You might want to look into the causes of it yourself, after you and Mr. Solo tidy up this affair. One suspects you did obtain those degrees of your for a reason, after all. Waverly out."

 

Illya made a face at the communicator as he capped it, although Napoleon doubted that anyone else would see the expression for what it was. "Because it's not as if being busy international spies is a full-time job or anything like that," Napoleon commented as he put the car back in gear.

 

"It might make an interesting research problem, actually, if it is due to properties specific to the region. The configuration of the mountains, variances in elevation combined with some as-yet undiscovered minerals, perhaps…." Illya looked thoughtful, and Napoleon was reminded that his partner was an accomplished scientist as well as being a busy international spy.

 

"Do you miss it?"

 

"Miss what?"

 

"Research problems. Doing science."

 

"I "do science," as you put it, frequently. Only it is usually associated with extricating you from your latest imprisonment."

 

"Well, field testing is important and you know I'm always happy to help."

 

#

 

Nova Žirany was the type of place Napoleon would label a "wide spot in the road," and not even a main road at that. It was an attractive wide spot, though, he'd give it that. Cuddled into a fold of the mountains, it at first gave every appearance of being one of those places that time had passed by, and progress as well. The area's main traffic – such as it was – having shifted to the newer roads to the east, there was little use now for the higher, more dangerous pass that the village, and the wreck of a castle above it, had once guarded. 

 

Thankfully, appearances were a bit deceiving. Enough local traffic still moved through to support The Spotted Dog, a reasonable-sized inn with reasonably modern amenities, which Napoleon was relieved to find meant a washroom on each floor, although he knew better than to look for a phone in the room.

 

They met up with their U.N.C.L.E. counterparts at last in the inn's restaurant cum common room, which looked like it had last been redecorated in 1832 or so.

 

"So, how much of an issue is communicator function in this area, then?" Illya asked, setting down his glass.

 

"Enough to be a major problem, we discovered," Radek Dufala answered, his English almost pure American Midwest, blue eyes bright in his sharp face. "There are difficulties in other areas of the Carpathians, so it wasn't that much a shock, but elsewhere, the interference seems more to follow the geography. Here, not so much."

 

"The area where we took the photograph, for instance," his partner Jarmil – or rather, Jarmila – Bakoss added. "Initially we had contact and then, abruptly, we did not. Almost as if the interference was being generated, or enhanced." 

 

Agent Bakoss was petite and solid in that way Slavic women sometimes were. Illya had raised an eyebrow upon their meeting, but Napoleon suspected it was more for the sloppy reporting that allowed the misunderstanding than from the fact that Bakoss was a woman – the idea of females in U.N.C.L.E. field agent harness fazed him not at all. "Women have fought for the Soviet since the Revolution, and THRUSH certainly makes good use of them," he'd commented one time, early in their partnership. "Why is U.N.C.L.E. so far behind?" Napoleon hadn't had a good answer.

 

"So. We can't count on any steady communications between us here other than telephones, which a) aren't secure, and b) I'm betting we won't find under every tree." Napoleon's mouth twisted. "All right. This area we're going to is a bit out of the way. You said you were hiking when you discovered…? "

 

Bakoss eyed him with a steady grey gaze. Napoleon thought she might be pretty if she smiled. "Radek enjoys hiking, as do I, and I wished to show him an area that he would probably not travel to on his own. Because I was born about ten kilometers from here, I know this place and have reason to visit. So – holiday."

 

"Jay hadn't been home in a long time and even with our U.N.C.L.E. putting in a good word, travel here is not always smooth, particularly for foreigners," Dufala added, his expression very much one of the "I've learned to deal" variety.

 

Napoleon's eyebrows pulled together. "Foreigners?"

 

"Born in Prague, raised in Topeka, Kansas, Mr. Solo. Part of what got me this posting. Living and working here has been very – educational."

 

"I understand," Illya said. Napoleon glanced over to find a wry expression on his partner's face. "There is, in the end, no real training for living in a culture so different from one's own other than, simply, to live in it."

 

"Do we have time to reach the location in question today?" Napoleon dragged the conversation back to the issue at hand, ignoring the odd twist in his stomach that Illya's remark had caused.

 

Bakoss nodded. "Perhaps, if you are ready for a bit of a climb." Her expression, clearly taking in Napoleon's usual well-tailored suit and tie, suggested that she thought otherwise.

 

"How much of a climb?"

 

She pulled a topographical map from the knapsack at her side and unfolded, then refolded it, and laid it on the table between them. "Here is our present location, and here, far above us, is Žirany Hrad. This area," a slim finger traced a section to the east of the castle, "what is left of Dávný Žirany – the old town, before this one. And here," she tapped a spot perpendicular to the others, "is where we must go."

 

Illya leaned forward, regarding the map with interest. "This is not so terribly far, although steep. Your report suggested that the – discovery occurred quite some distance away."

 

"It is farther than it looks, plus there are additional complications." Bakoss leaned forward as well. "Once it was possible to reach into this area from Dávný Žirany, but that is no longer a wise choice. During the war, the last count of the _hrad_ , the castle, convinced that the Nazis would seek to take the pass as enemies did in older times, sowed the ground here in the old town, the castle, and the pass itself with mines. The pass has since been cleared, mostly, and some of the castle as well, but Dávný Žirany they did not bother with, and the _les_ , the forest…well." She sat back, a small smile pulling at her mouth. "No one goes there anyway, then or now."

 

"Except for apparently crazy people, like you," Dufala said, grinning at her.

 

Bakoss grinned back, and Napoleon couldn't help but notice that she was indeed pretty when she smiled. "Yes, and you as well, Rada, since you came with me."

 

"What is the reason that the area is shunned?" Illya asked. His posture hadn't shifted, but Napoleon felt the sudden tension.

 

Bakoss looked back at Illya, her head tilted. "Because of the _sám kdo burza_."

 

"Ah." Well, Illya sounded enlightened, but Napoleon was going to need another minute to translate.

 

"Wisdom says that the _les_ is theirs, and that they too guarded the pass in old times. The _hrad_ and Dávný Žirany, as well, but the forest particularly is their own."

 

"But you go there," Illya said, intent as an interrogation. "Why?'

 

"I am a modern, rational Communist, Mr. Kuryakin," Bakoss replied. "I am also a student of history and a keeper of tales. If the _sám kdo burza_ exist, I wish to find them." Her gaze dropped suddenly, and she folded her hands on top of the table, suddenly less a full confident U.N.C.L.E. agent and more a troubled woman. "I did not wish, however, to find them dead."

 

" _Sám kdo burza,_ " Napoleon repeated as the words came to him. "The ones who change."

 

Illya nodded, turning to him. "Also known, I believe, as the _lid mezi_."

 

_Lid mezi_ , which sounded a lot like – " _L'udi mezhdu_ ," Napoleon said softly. Illya nodded.

 

"Are you a folklore buff too, then, Mr. Solo?" Dufala asked.

 

"Not so much, no." Napoleon held Illya's gaze. "But lately I'm learning the importance of cultural exchange."

 

Illya gave him a close-mouthed smile, blue eyes very warm, and Napoleon's heart tripped. For a moment, it felt like just the two of them in all the world. _Careful, Napoleon. Careful._

 

#

 

On the street outside The Spotted Dog, Bakoss tipped her head back and studied the sky, and then glanced at her watch. "If we are going to the site today then we must do it now, and quickly. The weather changes rapidly here and there will be rain and most probably fog, as well. Gentlemen?"

 

"So, where are we going?"

 

"Up there." Bakoss pointed. "You cannot actually see the site from here, though."

 

Napoleon stared up at the faintly hazy mountainside, hands shoved into his pockets. The things he did for this job. No doubt about it, this was going be a trek. Pulling a hand out, he bumped Illya on the back of the arm. "Ready to go play mountain goat, I.K. ?" 

 

"Yes, actually. It has been a while since I've had a challenging hike that didn't involve running for cover." Illya turned from his squinted perusal of the terrain. "Napoleon, you are a good hiker but I am quicker, we both know this. And you will need to change, as well. Why don't Ms. Bakoss and I make the trip, and you can employ your so-called charm here and see if any of the locals will remember something that they neglected to tell Ms. Bakoss and Mr. Dufala earlier?"

 

It was more than just his usual efficiency in being dressed for rough action – Illya was impatient to go, almost vibrating in place, unusual for the controlled Russian. Napoleon filed that tidbit away for future study. Subduing the moment of unease he always got when they separated, he nodded agreement – Illya _was_ the better climber. "I think I and my "so-called" charm will take you up on that. How about it, Mr. Dufala?" 

 

Dufala looked at his partner, who was looking at Illya. "Jay?"

 

Bakoss nodded. "It is a good plan, Radek. I think Mr. Kuryakin and I will travel well together. We shall meet you back at The Spotted Dog, yes? We will be back before sunset, of course."

 

"Of course," Napoleon echoed. "Stay in touch, Illya."

 

"The conventional way, if we can." Illya tapped the pocket holding his communicator. "If not, we will find another method."

 

"Just don't blow up anything large this early on, hmm? I'd hate to be run out of town before I get to, ah, apply that charm."

 

"Sometimes, Napoleon, you take all the joy out of life." Illya gestured to Bakoss. "Ms. Bakoss?"

 

She graced him with a small smile. "You may call me Jarmila, or Jay, if you wish. Ms. Bakoss is very formal for someone with whom I shall be scrambling over rocks."

 

Illya's own quick smile flashed; Napoleon saw it impact. "Then I am Illya. Shall we go?"

 

With no more ado, the two turned and headed up the street at a good clip, Illya graceful and economical as he always was, poetry in motion under the close-fit khakis, fabric clinging to his hips, his legs, his – 

 

"Mr. Solo?"

 

He blinked, pulled out a smile as he turned to Dufala. "Napoleon, please. I've no more desire to stand on ceremony than Illya does. Lead on, my friend, and let's see what secrets we might tease out of this town."

 

#


	5. History And Mystery

 

 

By the end of the afternoon, the clouds were considerably lower and Napoleon was considerably fuller, both of the local food and some fairly good beer, and also considerably poorer, as he'd found years ago that in a country where to gossip freely could get a man disappeared, to gossip for money made it a little more worth the risk.

 

"All right, Radek," he said with a sigh, leaning back against the wall and eyeing the graying sky. He'd chosen this table here in The Spotted Dog specifically for its long view of the street. When Illya and Jay returned, he'd know. "We've crawled through most of the pubs in town, not that they are numerous. What do we have?"

 

"About our poor mystery fellow, nothing. About the local legends, a bit more." Radek ran a hand through his short brown hair, which did nothing for its state of order. "What we do have are reports of people going missing, people with clean noses, who'd done nothing to get themselves the notice of government. Which suggests, possibly – "

 

"That it may not be the government that's noticing." Napoleon's mouth pursed.

 

"We also have tales of two people reappearing in rather worse shape than they disappeared in, and possibly not quite sane." Radek broke off as the unhappy-looking barmaid appeared with two glasses of the house special and the half-loaf of bread they'd requested. Napoleon gave her one of his better smiles and she dimpled at him in return before leaving, hips swaying more than when she'd approached. Ah, yes. "So-called" charm, indeed.

 

Radek raised his eyebrows in an "I'm possibly impressed" sort of way. Napoleon shrugged. "It's a gift. The interesting thing about those people is that they came back acting like, and apparently believing that they were, animals. Dogs in particular. Barking, scratching – "

 

"Marking territory, even," Radek said, grimacing, and took a swig of beer.

 

"Not a sign of the mentally all-there. But," Napoleon held up a finger, "the symptoms evidently dissipated in two or three days, leaving the victims with only blurred memories of their missing time and subsequent animal hijinks. Which in turn has people thinking about the _l'udi mezhdu._ " A familiar two-tone shrill issued from his breast pocket, and Napoleon pulled out his communicator. "Solo."

 

"Napoleon." Something in Napoleon's chest unclenched at the familiar accent, even overlaid with static and hum. "I'll be quick, before I lose the signal. We are fine and on our way back down, Jay thinks we will arrive before the rain does. When we got there, however, the body -- " The static won, drowning out Illya's voice, then the hum overrode the static and the communicator cut out completely.

 

"Yeah," Radek commented wryly, saluting Napoleon with his glass. "That's about how it happens. I chalk it up as just one more interesting thing about my ancestral land to get used to."

 

Napoleon capped the communicator and tucked it away, thinking. This was an opportunity, wasn't it? One he shouldn't miss. "How "interesting" has it been?" he asked, leaning forward to saw off a piece of dark, heavy bread.

 

Radek regarded him calmly, fingers wrapped around his glass.

 

"Unofficially and totally off the record," Napoleon added, realizing that he needed to tack a little. "We've got few Westerners stationed in the Bloc and fewer Americans. I can read up all I want to on culture shock, but it's not the same as living it, particularly in your situation. I'd like to understand."

 

"Because of your partner?"

 

Well, Radek was a fellow spy, after all. "Partially, yes."

 

Radek studied him a minute more. "Our UNCLE owns us body and soul, doesn't he?" he murmured cryptically, and took a drink of his beer. "The short version? Lonely. Lonely, with a big helping of that "through the looking glass" feeling." He set his glass down and turned it between his fingers. "My parents emigrated after the war, although I was too young to remember much. We already had family there and my father was seeing the handwriting on the wall, governmentally speaking, and didn't want any part of it. So I grew up with my parents' language and their stories of this county, but as it used to be. But nothing stays the same. And I knew that, which was why I wasn't sure I ever really wanted to come here. But when Prague opened up, apparently I was the best choice." He took another sip, then met Napoleon's eyes.

 

"Between you, me and the wall? Those first few months, I though I'd go nuts. It was like – all the training aside, it was that suddenly all those little cues that you recognize, work by, the little things that you use to relate – none of it works very well, some of it not at all. Every response is about a quarter to a full half-turn off from what you're used to, and you find yourself backing off, getting quiet, because you can't quite predict the reaction. It's incredibly frustrating sometimes." Radek leaned back in his chair and exhaled. "Thank God for work and Jarmila, and the fact that we just, well, clicked."

 

Napoleon tapped his thumb soundlessly against his glass, one, two, three. "And are you comfortable now?"

 

Radek's teeth flashed in a quick grin. "Absolutely. Discomfort these days is pretty much confined to, shall we say, politics? Oh, every once in a while I'll forget and do something that's custom _there_ but not _here_ and it twinges a little, but Jay's gotten used to me. I'll bet that happens to your partner, too, occasionally."

 

No, Napoleon almost said, and stopped. And thought about Illya's comment earlier, and his silences, and the occasional movement aborted for no reason that Napoleon could see, and wondered.

 

#

 

Rain was just beginning to dot the rippled glass of the window when Napoleon's attention caught on two figures coming down the street. Even with the distinctive hair shadowed beneath his hood, Napoleon knew him, knew that walk. He moved easily, as did the smaller figure of Jarmila beside him, and Napoleon relaxed. Whatever his partner had been trying to tell him earlier, it hadn't resulted in injury or emergency. "Our intrepid hikers return," he said, nodding at the window.

 

"And just before the rain," Radek commented with a grin, leaning to look out the window. "Jay's weather eye has rarely steered us wrong, at least in this country."

 

"Oh?" Napoleon said. "Sounds like there's a story there."

 

"There is, but I kinda like my skin in one piece." Radek got to his feet. "Another one?"

 

Napoleon shook his head. "Just water, thanks, but get one for Illya and water as well." Radek went over to the bar and Napoleon went back to watching his partner approach. A pleasure he rarely indulged in this way; it was rare to have the chance to watch Illya without his partner being aware of it. Not that it would last much longer, either – ah. Illya caught his eye through the window, clearly looking for him.

 

Even at a distance, the tingle still went through him, the jolt of connection that lit him every time he and Illya came back together. It had always happened, almost from the start, the day he'd been called up to Waverly's office to meet one I.N. Kuryakin, Ph.D., apparent Russian wunderkind and the first Soviet to be slated for Section Two, North America. Oh, he'd known Kuryakin's face, of course; the picture had come over before him along with the rest of Beldon's packet. But instead of the glowering _apparatchik_ he'd expected, he'd gotten broadsided by a blue-eyed, gilt-haired fallen angel with a bad suit, a firm grip and no smile, but one who proved over their initial lunch together to have the driest wit it had ever been Napoleon's pleasure to meet. And as they'd talked, Napoleon couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, he was meeting an old and dear friend for the first time.

 

The past vanished into the present as the rain went from gentle plip to downpour, and Illya and Jay broke into a run. They fetched up under the inn's wide eaves and a moment later they were through the door. Illya made a beeline for the table where Napoleon sat, unzipping his coat although he didn't remove it, the better not to advertize the gun beneath. He shoved back his hood and dropped into the chair next to Napoleon, pushing back his damp hair with one hand. "You've been busy," he said. He took hold of Napoleon's glass, sniffed once, tilted his head back and drained the last few swallows from it, and thumped it back onto the table. "You might have saved me a bit more." He was a little flushed, healthy color in his face from the hike, eyes bright, grin lurking in the twitch of his mouth. He smelled like exertion and earth and the forest, dark and rich.

 

"Oh, I had actually ordered a glass just for you, oh skeptical one," Napoleon replied, fighting his own grin. "But you'll be sharing it with me, now."

 

"Of course. To each according to their need, after all."

 

#

 

"The problem is," Illya said, some minutes later, piling bread and meat and cheese together in a neat fold, "that the body is not there." He popped the fold into his mouth and chewed.

 

"Not there?"

 

"Not there." Jay took a pull on her beer. "It has been moved."

 

"The ground was disturbed there, where someone had dug," Illya added, reaching for his own beer.

 

"Animal?" Radek asked.

 

"The two-legged type with opposable thumbs, yes." Illya grabbed another slice of bread. "It was too neat for any other kind."

 

Napoleon watched as his partner downed more bread and cheese with enthusiasm. Illya's appetite was one of those comforting universal constants. "Are you sure you were in the right place?"

 

Illya's eyebrows conveyed amused anticipation.

 

"I do not get lost here, Mr. Solo," Jay said, her voice cool. "I am rarely lost anywhere, and most certainly not here."

 

Napoleon eyed her lazily, perversely feeling rather better now for the challenge. "I would ask the question of anyone, Ms. Bakoss," he said, letting a bare hint of Number One, Section Two, New York shade his voice.

 

"We were in the correct place," Jay insisted, quiet but not backing down one inch.

 

"The place matched the description and the readings taken earlier, Napoleon." Illya definitely sounded amused, although Napoleon doubted anyone other than himself would have heard it. "Along with the fact that we did find the disturbance in the ground exactly where it should have been. Add to that – this." He dug into a pocket and came out with a small plastic bag, which he dropped on the table in front of Napoleon. "I cannot be completely positive without running analysis, of course, but I believe these to match the samples that were sent to us."

 

Napoleon held the bag up between three fingers, studying the contents. Hair. Strike that. Fur. And a scrap of fabric, same color as that in the file photograph. His stomach twitched. He set the bag down and set his jaw, as well. "That means, unfortunately, that we are not alone in our interest here. The question is, who?"

 

"The why is, of course, obvious," Illya remarked, taking another sip of his beer. He licked foam off of his upper lip and Napoleon was caught by the sight. He clenched his hand under the table, hard.

 

"Getting rid of the evidence," Radek said, and Illya nodded.

 

"More unfortunately, it means that you and Jay were quite possibly observed. The killer perhaps did not bother with disposal of the body because no one else was expected to be in those woods, which is sloppy thinking on their part. But the fact that you were not killed as well suggests that your observer was – someone else."

 

Radek's eyes widened just a little as Illya's casual assessment of why he and Jay were still breathing, and Napoleon almost smiled. "Yes, we live with targets on our backs, sometimes literally," he said, and Illya shot him a dirty look. "So we can assume that Radek and I were noticed as well, probably by our other interested party."

 

"Which means the interested party should be now interested in us. Perhaps they will be coming by soon to say hello." Illya saluted Napoleon with his glass and a brief, sarcastic smile.

 

#


End file.
